


the seasons, the tides, the winds

by scionblad



Series: the village atop the hill [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Genji Shimada, Brothers, Canon Compliant, Character Death, Character Study, Gen, Heavy Drinking, Post-Recall, Pre-Canon, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, Suicide Attempt, Young Genji Shimada, Young Hanzo Shimada, but also—
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-17 02:38:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12355749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scionblad/pseuds/scionblad
Summary: Father would go to great lengths to preserve the honor and strength of the family. So should Hanzo.So should Hanzo.(Vignettes—of Hanzo, sometimes Genji, and of things that rush out and away, only to come back time and again.)





	1. azure spring

**Author's Note:**

> long time no write but sometimes u gotta be the hanzo content u want to see in the world
> 
> tags are a little crazy because the timeskips are big:  
> 1 - hanzo, 17 / genji, 14  
> 2 - hanzo, 31 / genji, 28  
> 3 - hanzo, 37 / genji, 34  
> 4 - hanzo, 39 / genji, 36
> 
> blackwatch genji does not make explicit appearances but is referenced.

The smell woke him, that peculiar smell.

The night was dark, the moon only a sliver of white in the sky, and the clouds stretched out before it, lazily, yawning like they had been raining just a few minutes before. From the window, Hanzo could smell the dampness of the stone and sand, soaked in rain, and knew that come sunrise the servants of the house would rise and tend to the garden with their careful rakes, pulling the grains into perfect waves, finding harmony and order in the beauty of nature.

He rubbed his eyes of the dry tears in their corners, and looked beside him. Genji was asleep still, his gangly growing teenage limbs strewn about his futon like he was trying to roll out of it and onto Hanzo’s during the night. If anything, Hanzo thought, it meant that his dreams were peaceful, joyful, even.

Silently, he pushed aside his own covers and tied the yukata he wore closed. The smell was still there—mostly the rain and the rocks from outside, but also something else, something that didn’t quite seem right.

It was familiar, he knew that much. He recognized it, and he knew that it came from within the house, but could not remember, could not remember. The fogginess of dreams still clouded his head, and he inhaled the cold spring night wind, trying to clear, trying to understand, trying to see.

Hanamura was silent. Behind him, Hanzo closed the door on a sleeping Genji, and looked left and right. Empty. Some instinct told him he should go towards the back of the estate, where Father retired, and he thought nothing of disobeying—if there was something strange, then surely Father should know. He brushed his hair out of his face, looked again, and started walking, taking care not to make his footsteps heard, like he was taught. The path brought him around the side, towards the part of the house that sat precariously at the cliff’s edge, looking over the garden.

From inside the hall, he could smell it again, more clearly. No, it couldn’t have been. Panicked, he climbed the wall up to the window facing out from the balcony inside the hall, and peered from behind the railing.

The smell was stronger here, and it was dark, except for the two lanterns on either side of the main entrance. At the back, he could see the dark, thick stain of red-black on the tatami, and he felt a fool for not realizing earlier what the smell was.

Below the mural of the Two Brothers, below the scroll, his father knelt, cleaning his sword with the sleeve of the corpse’s kimono, before neatly sliding it back into its sheath tied at his waist. Hanzo covered his mouth and nose to stifle the sound of his breathing. The man who lay at his father’s feet had a face he knew—the same nose and eyebrows, the same honorable spirit. His father’s younger brother.

He blinked, tried to focus, and the wind blew past his cold ears as his head span and tried to make sense of everything—the smell, the stain, the sword shining gold and orange in the warm light of the lanterns. Uncle, Uncle, he remembered. A kind man with a cool scar on his nose and tall tales on his tongue. Acid rose in Hanzo's throat and he hastily swallowed it back down, restraining as much as possible.

His father, below, stepped neatly over the red stain and looked solemnly at the body, his face near unreadable, his not-quite-yet gnarled hands resting on the guard of the sword.

Hanzo felt compelled then, to shrink back into the shadows, lest his father’s stern gaze and steady blade find him next. Swallowing acid down again, he dropped down from the window, and stumbled back to the room where he and Genji had been sleeping, but not before falling and scraping his knees and palms, and not before remembering how the other day his uncle had smiled at them both and given Genji candy, to which his younger brother protested loudly and childishly, _I’m not a child anymore!_

Neither of them were. Hanzo felt the thickness in his throat and chest expand, threatening to betray the falsity of that truth. Neither of them were. He swallowed it away the best he could, like he did with the acid and the dizziness, and stumbled back, back, praying to see no one in the halls but his own shadow.

“Brother?”

Genji was awake. Hanzo’s stomach dropped. His throat was too muddled in humors to say anything, so he shook his head instead and slid the door closed behind him.

“Are you okay?”

He wasn’t, but all Hanzo did was rub his eyes and nod. Genji looked back, brows slightly furrowed. His eyes, dark under the flop of his unnaturally bright hair, traveled to rest on the slight blotches of red on Hanzo’s hands, where the skin had been roughed off. He seemed to want to say something, but a heartbeat passed, and nothing was said.

“Well,” he said finally. “If you’re sure.”

He went back to his futon, looking expectantly at Hanzo while he did so. Hanzo sighed and cleared his throat the best he could.

“What is it?” he croaked, voice prickling out of disuse.

“Get back in bed?” Genji frowned at him like it was fairly obvious. “You look like you need the rest.”

“And you’re not my babysitter,” Hanzo grumbled back, but did so all the same. They rolled to face away from each other, but sound of Genji’s breathing turning to soft snoring comforted him.

He peered over his shoulder. Tomorrow Genji would probably get up late for school, scrambling to put his blazer over his cheaply made T-shirt and throwing his tie around his neck, running with his bag and a piece of toast in his mouth like he was a cartoon character, then spend the rest of the day skipping clubs and going to the arcade and getting extra noodle servings at the ramen shop. Hanzo’s heart ached a little bit at that thought—carefree, laughing Genji, who always wore his uniform sloppily and dyed his hair bright green to make all of the teachers fret because _he isn’t even in high school, and yet, already!_

But no one at school dared to touch him or set their hammer to nail down his rebellious green head which stuck out. He was the son of the Shimada, who were protected by the dragons and their strength. Nothing would happen. Nothing would change.

That must have been why their uncle had to be killed. So nothing would change.

He wasn’t privy to any of the big reasons, actually, let alone details. Though their father was head, none of his lieutenants felt him or Genji men yet, and children could not join the family, no matter if they spoke with a deeper voice or found hairs on their chin and lip. But he knew, just from the way things were, it had to be that reason. Father was a good man, and was only harsh in his work, in his dealings, on his first son, all to ensure the power of the dragons lived strong in their blood and that they retained their strength as a family.

Hanzo rolled back over to face the window. The candy that Genji had refused, he’d eaten anyway. He snuck it in his mouth before dinner, and then smoothed his green hair back like nothing had happened. _I’m not a child!_

Hanzo wished he’d gotten the candy. His uncle had only given him a pouch of coins and a stern pat on the shoulder. _The firstborn son._

There was candy in the convenience store around the corner. Tomorrow on his way to school he might buy some, but it wouldn’t taste as sweet.

 

.

 

The text, sent three minutes ago from his father’s steward, said _He will not be able to go, but I am sure you will honor him._

He would do fine. It had only been a year since he’d started kyudo at school but archery came easily to his steady hands and restrained body. It was better suited to him than Genji, who impatiently skipped all the steps and breathing and then didn’t bother to try anymore. Hanzo was calm. He thought of the water rushing and flowing in the silver tides, the arrow rushing and flowing to strike true.

Under normal circumstances, anyway. Far away, the mud on the range looked like the thick, dark stain on the floor of the hall in the Shimada estate.

Another text. _You’ll do great, brother!_ Followed by a string of cheerful kaomoji.

Carefree, laughing Genji again. It would be nice if he was here to harass Hanzo about kyudo in person and not just through an assault of pixels.

He put the phone in his jacket and stood up. _Do what you must_ , Father always said. The bow felt heavy, though it was a weight he was accustomed to. The meet did a small number on his nerves, but it was one he knew before.

The competition opened with a master, an old man, balding, calmly shooting an arrow directly down the center. He tuned out of the women’s competition, and frankly, he tuned out during the men’s too, moving through each form using only his muscle memory.

_Fwip_. The cold wind through the tall windows of Shimada Castle.

_Fwip_. The bright shine of his father’s sword, the family sword, the heirloom sword.

_Fwip._ The candy. It was melon-flavored. Green like Genji’s hair.

_Fwip._

That was one round. He cast his eyes upwards towards the stands, even though he knew he would find nothing. _Nothing must change_. He shuffled backwards and knelt to wait for the next round. _Nothing must change._

When it was all over, his thumb and back ached with the effort of holding the bow drawn. He received his prize, alone, and went home.

The maid welcomed him home while wearing a black kimono. Incense rose on the breeze, and white paper fluttered around the shrine in the courtyard.

Genji looked up as Hanzo slid the door of their room open. There were two black suits laid out, probably by the servants, but Genji hadn’t changed out of his school uniform.

“You do well?” he asked without preamble.

Hanzo laid his prize on the table without a word. Genji nodded. “Nice.”

He sounded like he didn’t mean the compliment. Hanzo laid his bow down and sat down on a cushion. It was cold and windy, but they both liked it that way. Shimada Castle sat high on its mountain and its dragons were those who presided over the winds.

“So.” Genji cleared his throat. “Uncle’s dead. His wake is tonight.”

“I know,” said Hanzo.

“Why’d you still go to the competition, then?”

_Do what you must_. “Uncle’s death should not get in the way of maintaining the image of normalcy.”

“Someone in the family is dead and you care about normalcy?” Genji scoffed. “You’re just as bad as the lieutenants.”

Hanzo watched the paper flutter. _Father knows._ “It’s not my job to decide what normal is and isn’t,” he said.

“Well, it’s not normal, it’s stupid,” said Genji. He kicked his school bag angrily. “The last thing I said to him was some stupid tantrum about getting my favorite candy, and then suddenly he’s dead because a rival clan assassinated him?”

Hanzo swallowed nervously. A rival clan. So that was the story.

_Nothing will change_. “I see,” he murmured, his thoughts racing. “Will Father take revenge?”

Genji shrugged and looked away. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”

How fortunate, to have the luxury not to care. Hanzo curled his hands into fists, ignoring the stinging folds of his knuckles under the joints, where he held the string taut.

“I hate this,” Genji muttered. He rolled to lay on his side, facing away from Hanzo, the window, the world. “I hate when people die and I hate when everyone says it’s because of the honor and stuff. That’s bullshit. That’s honestly bullshit.”

The chimes hanging on their window sang softly as the breeze picked up. Hanzo moved to close the window. He didn’t want to smell the incense anymore. It made him feel sick.

Death is a part of life. Death is a part of life. Nothing will change. Nothing will change.

He thought again of the stern pat on his shoulder, the solemn dark gaze his uncle had, not dissimilar to Father’s. Maybe there should have been more. Maybe there should have been something warmer, kinder. He could bear the first son’s responsibility just fine. Better him than Genji, really, and all the lieutenants thought so. If anything could prepare him to succeed Father, it was being the first son. Death at the hands of family was not uncommon to them. Father was prepared to, and so should he.

The wind still carried the incense smell to them somehow. He looked at Genji, still sulking on his side, his school blazer rumpled and creased, hair green like melon candy.

Father was prepared to. So should he. But Hanzo was not yet a man, not to the family. He was not sure if he wanted to be, if that meant a dark stain on the floors Shimada Castle and a son with scraped knees and no uncle.


	2. dark warrior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With his brother's sword and brother's wind, Hanzo seeks honorable death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING: there are graphic depictions of a suicide attempt in this chapter.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> please take care of yourselves everyone.

The assassin was behind him. He could feel it, an almost oppressive presence behind him.

This time of year, the mountains surrounding the town of Hanamura were just bearably cold, if only marginally. Snow rose to his mid-calf, and he tucked his coat around him to keep out more of the wind. The night grew older, stretching across Hanzo’s limbs with sleepiness. Impatiently, he wondered when the assassin was going to strike.

He climbed farther up the winding path, the wind buffeting his face and hands, sending the flaps of his clothes flying around him. He rubbed his palms together for warmth, praying to the spirit dragons that guarded their bloodline to grant him some manner of protection.

It was unlikely, though. The wind that rushed at him headfirst and angry was the north wind. The grievances he had caused the dragon would not likely be reconciled anytime soon.

Three years. He pressed a palm to his eyes, blocking the wind from getting to them. Three years. The smell of the incense he’d lit only hours earlier seemed to still hang densely in his nostrils. The coldness holed up in his chest, and solidified into a heavy, dark lead, sinking and sinking.

He shook it off, flexing his fingers. The path had finally moved around to the south side of the mountain;  though it was not a narrow path, it was not wide either—only enough for a car to just make it, if one drove carefully. Yet the face protected it from the wind, and it was not so cold that Hanzo had to constantly brace himself against the chill.

The wind was not so loud to mask the footsteps of the assassin, either.

Hanzo reached for the _wakizashi_ tucked behind him.

“I know you are there,” he said. “I know why you have come.”

Footsteps crunched through the snow towards him and he turned around, parried twice, and threw the assailant over his shoulder easily. “Predictable,” he spat at the assassin, and moved to slice his throat with the _wakizashi_.

The moonlight caught on the blade, flashing in his eyes for a second, and he hesitated, his eyes drawn to the face of the assassin. The man looked back at him with a question in his dark eyes, and Hanzo tightened his grip to steady the quivering in his hand. He was living the life of that assassin now. The innocent man need not die for something that did not concern him.

Besides, the blade was not Hanzo’s, and he should not use it to kill someone not meant to die by that blade.

Swiftly, he flipped the blade around, to the assassin’s growing shock, and knocked the man out with the butt of the sword, dragging the body to a sheltered place where the assassin would not freeze to death by the winds. Then he moved on.

Higher up, the wind blew colder, and Hanzo adjusted his scarf, edging onwards, his heart beating as quickly as it did the first time a man who served the Shimadas had come after him, in a dark side alley in Tokyo. It was one of the younger brothers, who a month before had poured sake into his cup at Shimada Castle.

How many joints did he cut off his little finger to atone for his failure? Two, at least. The disgraced heir of the Shimada family ought not be running around wildly, living the lowly life of a blade for hire, the secrets and knowledge of the dragons outside where the family cannot control.

They should not have put such trust in a man so far below in the ranks. Likely, Hanzo thought, it had been the lieutenants who agreed amongst themselves to not risk their comfort and position for such a dangerous pursuit.

His legs kept walking. The place was not right yet.

Hundreds of feet below, the lights of Hanamura sparkled, the streets reflecting the light to cast warm halos around each prick of yellow. He stopped to watch it, briefly. Once he might have been walking back through the snow, carrying a melon sponge cake for Genji and a bottle of sake for his father and the other lieutenants. “Tell your mother I said hello,” said the bakery owner to him as he would leave, balancing the box in his hands, breath puffing against his orange scarf, _for brother to stay warm until he gets home!_

Hanzo rubbed his eyes with the rough material of his glove, and kept going.

The path farther up widened into a clearing of sorts, and there he collapsed finally, on his side, feeling the snow wet against his face. He could hear his heart beating, if he laid still enough, slowly, like it would fade out of existence.

The power of the family was diminishing. He had noticed when he had run in just hours earlier, how the number of guards had gone down from last year, how much easier it had been to infiltrate. The trades overseas had not been going well. Shipments from China were getting relocated elsewhere, the payments from the locals had been late. There was no one strong to lead the clan. There were no dragons to sit atop the hill and watch the cherry blossoms fall. The lieutenant they had chosen to succeed Hanzo after his shame-ridden departure was competent, but barely. He did not light incense offerings to the wind. He did not know the dragons.

Hanzo closed his eyes and prayed, whispered a futile wish, thinking of two dragons, north and south, protectors and guides. Nothing.

It had been hard to summon the dragons lately. Even now, they only stirred, but did not come, did not dazzle with their luminescent blue, like the melting ice flowing in spring waters. He had no strength, he thought. That was why.

Father would be disappointed, surely. His favorite Sparrow lay dead, his prized heir lay disgraced on a mountainside, his empire in shambles.

He sat up. He would not disgrace himself anymore.

He took the _wakizashi_ out of its sheath, noting the inscription carved in the blade, a little clumsily, in boyish scratches: _Sparrow._

His hand shook. He gripped the sword harder, forcing himself to calm down. The sword was a little bit long, but there was nothing else. It had to be with this sword. _Sparrow._

Slowly, he removed his coat, undeterred by the cold, and then laid his bow and quiver beside it. He wrapped the scarf around the blade of the sword and laid it on his right hand side.

Then, he removed a slip of paper from the pocket inside his coat, and a pen. If there were time, real ink, nice paper—but alas.

He wrote, not thinking, letting the words flow.

 _sparrow on the wind_  
_sees a light beyond the sun_ _  
_ _blossoms flying north_

He folded it, and weighed it down on the snow with the pen. Then he opened his shirt and took the sword in his hands, pressing the tip against the left side of his gut.

The sword felt alive. The pain felt _real,_ crystal-clear. He almost exhaled with relief, gritting his teeth; he felt like he was finally feeling something, for the first time since that day, three years ago. He dug the blade deep into his stomach—if he did it right, it would get the artery in his gut, and all of this would be quickly done.

As he pushed the sword through, dark blood spilled across his thighs and hands, staining his pants and the snow between his legs. It was a beautiful color, shining in the moonlight. He almost laughed, had he not been so intent on staying silent—perhaps he should have written about the color. Like the dark stain on the floor of Shimada castle, a stain he had seen twice in his life, years apart. It would have been relevant at least. A fitting end.

The pain did not subside when he drew the sword out of his stomach, finished with the cut, but he still did not make a sound. Instead, he leaned forward, exhausted, putting his hands in his face, feeling the blood flow over his legs, its metallic smell fill his nostrils. He felt like a human being for the first time in years. The sensation made his eyes water.

 _Genji_ , he thought almost hopelessly, as he watched more and more of the snow turn dark. _Father_.

Footsteps crunched in the snow behind him. He smiled into ground. _The death god, come to deliver me._ Perhaps, even, it was his brother, eyes bright, hair green like melon candy. Easygoing, laughing. _Together, the brothers set out to repair what they’d once destroyed._

His vision turned dark too, and he gratefully gave himself to nothingness.

 

.

 

He woke suddenly, with clear plastic atop his nose. His abdomen ached horribly, and felt stiff, like something was wrapped tightly around it..

The lights above him were sterile cold white. There was some beeping noise coming from somewhere on his right.

 _The afterlife?_ he wondered a little childishly. Weakly, he lifted a hand to pinch his thigh, and it was too present to be something other than life.

A nurse came in. “Sir,” she said, and her hands began moving around on the displays next to him.

“How,” he croaked, and cleared his throat, wincing at the pain in his gut. “How long have I been here?”

The nurse looked at him, her expression neutral. “Since late last night, about two or three in the morning. A young man brought you in.”

“Who?” Hanzo searched his memory. _The assassin?_

“He showed signs of concussion, but managed to get you here very quickly. A few minutes later and it was very possible that you could have died.”

Hanzo looked stonily at the ceiling. That was kind of the point.

She left, and he was left to look out the window. He could see Shimada Castle in the distance, high and cold, the cherry trees starting to bud. Maybe in a few weeks they would blossom.

They used to watch it by the courtyard, the trees fluttering in pale pinks, petals falling like rain. Genji and his melon pastry sat beside his mother with green tea, her hands gentle and frail. At night they seemed unearthly, the blossoms lit by lights put there by the servants.

He sighed heavily. That was a lifetime ago, it felt like.

When all of him was healed, he decided, he had to get out of Japan. There was no point anymore if people would not let him die, if the assassin he had decided to spare thought he was somehow worth saving. As if someone else had the power to make that kind of decision, whether he needed saving or not. Clearly, they thought he was beyond redemption. Beyond an honorable death.

Beside him on the bedside table lay the sword, still wrapped in the orange scarf, stained dark with the blood from his gut. Near the guard, _sparrow._

_sparrow on the wind_

The family’s power was weakening. There was, a man, omnic, _something_ that was disrupting the dealings. He had heard it, hearsay on the lips of assassins and mercenaries. It was Overwatch, they said, but not the shining faces of Commander Morrison and Captain Amari. Taking the payments from the locals, so the younger brothers would come in and demand the payments, the money was late. Redirecting the shipments of weapons and drugs, cargo mysteriously turning up in China. But even more, it was someone who was doing all of that, a man who dashed and killed like he was not human, even.

_sees a light beyond the sun_

Maybe he, too, knew how weak the family had gotten since Hanzo had left. Maybe he, too, was angry at Hanzo. Maybe this was the punishment, to live, to see his father’s empire fall apart because of his sons’ weakness, to remember who had struck down his brother’s easy smile and laugh.

_blossoms flying north_

Hanzo closed his eyes.


	3. virtuous ruler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Numbani, Hanzo meets a stranger, who tells a story they both know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter contains descriptions of intoxicated behavior. if that is upsetting to you at all, please take care of yourself.
> 
> it just so happened that i actually wrote ch 2 last. seeing this fic still marked incomplete makes me jumpy—alas.

The city was not to his liking, much. Neither was the bar. Neither was the alcohol, which was overpriced, underwhelming, and lacked the complexity in taste as a fine _daiginjo_ sake.

Maybe it was how… irritatingly positive this Numbani place was. He’d heard of a contact here that was hiring assassins, but frankly he’d had a long day traveling and wanted to unwind his tense mind with something that burned his throat. Hanzo sniffed again at the glass. Whatever this stuff was, he didn’t recognize it, but it was certainly doing the job.

The bartender eyed him a little bit, her practiced hands smoothly pouring drinks for the few other patrons, but Hanzo didn’t need anyone’s judgement right now. He didn’t want it. Brazenly, he swallowed the rest of the whiskey in his throat and resolutely masked his face at the burn. That was better.

The clock on his burner phone hadn’t been set to the local time yet, but it had been—he squinted, struggling to do the math—three hours since he’d gotten to the bar. He’d messaged the contact earlier, and they had arranged a meeting in Numbani’s city center near the airport tomorrow afternoon. It was time to go home. He stood up, swaying a little bit—the alcohol must have hit him harder than he predicted, embarrassingly so—and stumbled.

“Whoa!” said someone behind him, and two strong—metallic?—arms caught him under his armpits, and steadied his legs enough so he could stand, barely.

“Let go of me,” Hanzo muttered, trying to shrug the metal hands off, and it was not until the stranger let out a small “ah!” of surprise that he realized he’d slipped into Japanese.

Well, no matter. It wasn’t as if he could hide that fact so easily, with his features undisguised as they were. The person holding his armpits set him back on the bar stool and looked at him in the face.

“To think,” the stranger said in Japanese, his slightly robotic voice whirring with contained excitement, “that I would run into a familiar face here, in Numbani!”

Hanzo widened his eyes. _A Shimada assassin._

Instinctively he lunged to grapple the stranger’s throat, his other hand reaching for a _wakizashi_ that wasn’t there, but the stranger dodged and laughed as easily as if Hanzo were telling a simple joke.

“A Japanese man,” the stranger clarified in a steady voice, gripping Hanzo’s wrists. “My countryman.”

The stranger did not look Japanese by any means Hanzo could tell. A blue scarf obscured his face and shoulder, with a visor shaped somewhat like goggles, and artificial plates covered his chest and arms. An omnic then, though there was a strange familiarity to the way he presented himself, despite his appearance—tall like a mountain in the snowless peaks of summer. An unerring kind of confidence, that found in youth. And his accent was definitely of a native’s.

“I have not returned to Japan for many years,” said Hanzo, glaring at him. _Except for the one day every year_.

“And neither I,” replied the stranger. He clasped Hanzo’s shoulder with an intimacy that seemed steeped in more than simple countrymen meeting, and slid onto the stool next to him, tipping his head to one side in a friendly manner.“We have that in common.”

Hanzo looked away. A village high atop a hill, with cherry blossoms casting pink petals on the streets in spring.

“Your tattoos remind me of a story I heard often as a child,” said the omnic, nodding at Hanzo’s exposed sleeve. “The two dragon brothers, great lords of the north and south winds, who upheld the heavens in harmony.”

Hanzo cursed the heat of the city that forced him into the tank top he was wearing. If anything, he’d thought no one would have recognized such symbolism in these parts of the world.

“I am familiar with the story,” he said gruffly, trying to hide his annoyance at his own carelessness.

“Yes!” The omnic leaned towards him, a smile on his words. “And yet, despite their unity, they quarreled over whose power was greater, and in the following rage, the older brother struck his younger brother down to the earth.”

His hands had lost some feeling, but Hanzo rubbed the callus that had grown on the skin between his index finger and his thumb, rough from years of kendo.

“Victory was sweet for the dragon of the south wind, but it was short-lived, for soon he despaired at his actions and at the loss of his younger brother, and bitter were his wounds and grief.”

The stain on the tatami floor of Shimada Castle. The sword, whose sharp edge had been dulled by flesh and bone.

“One day,” the omnic said, resting his chin on his metal knuckles, “a stranger approached the older brother and asked ‘O dragon lord! Why are you so distraught!’ and the dragon replied, ‘In want of power, I struck down my brother, yet I am nothing without him.’”

The six year old scar in his stomach seemed to ache—the alcohol, probably.

“The stranger told the dragon, ‘You have been gravely hurt, but now you must heal. Walk upon the earth with two feet, as I do, and learn to value humility.’ And the dragon knelt upon the ground, aware of his surroundings for the first time, and became human. The stranger revealed himself as his fallen brother, and together the two set out to rebuild what they had once destroyed.”

Upon finishing his story the omnic stranger looked at him. “Nostalgic, right?”

 _Easygoing, laughing Genji_. He could almost imagine Genji sitting next to him at the bar, teasing him about how much he’d had to drink, his lack of a romance life, reminiscing about the stories they had heard so often as boys.

Instead, he settled for, “You didn’t tell the story the right way.”

The omnic laughed, and Hanzo’s heart twisted.

“Well,” said the stranger, chortling still, “I’ve had to make do. My memory from childhood is not perfect, but the tale is the same, and we learn the same things from it, regardless of the words.”

“It’s a tale for fools and children,” Hanzo replied, unable to restrain the bite of bitterness. “The adage my father gave with it was to always value those you love over power and find humility in doing so.” He looked at the stained and scratched wood of the bar. “He was a fool and a hypocrite.”

The stranger said nothing. He was completely still, the laughter winded all out of him. “A hypocrite?” he asked, his robotic voice whirring so softly Hanzo could barely hear it.

“Unworthy,” he replied. “The dragon of the north wind will always fall to his southern brother in every generation, and my father complied like the weak man he was.” _And I complied like the weak man I am._

The stranger did not move, his hands on his lap, his visored gaze trained on the long horizontal scratch in the wood bar in front of him. The three circles in the plate on his shoulder popped out, releasing a small cloud of steam.

“Well,” said the stranger after a long moment. “We all take away different things from this story, I suppose. Such is the diversity of life.”

Hanzo frowned. “Then what nonsense do you find in this child’s tale?” he demanded.

“Forgiveness,” the stranger said. “The strength of forgiveness and healing.”

“We are truly of two different minds then,” replied Hanzo. “What I have done cannot be forgiven.”

He motioned for more alcohol. Only the burn would sustain him. The stranger made no move and only watched. He was much more quiet now that they had spoken of things that seemed beyond their conversation. Hanzo drank, ignoring him.

Forgiveness. Forgiveness. He thought of the stench of blood and the slick sharpness of a blade stained red. If Genji were here, he would gladly let Genji kill him. It was the rightful thing he deserved. It was rightful that, after all of the things he had done to lose honor, he died at the hands of vengeful justice. Someone who would carry through. He didn’t trust himself anymore to finish it all, but if there was anything or anyone he trusted, no matter how flighty or frivolous, it was Genji.

“Genji,” said the stranger quietly.

Hanzo started, and glared at him. “How do you know that name?” he demanded.

“You were saying it to yourself,” said the stranger.

They eyed each other for a minute, Hanzo’s face uncovered and untrusting, the stranger veiled in his safe blue.

“Who are you?” asked Hanzo.

The stranger’s gaze, unwaveringly green, met his, if a little bit sadly. “A nomad,” he replied.

 

.

 

Hanzo woke alone the next day, his memory spotty, his brain feeling like it thumped around inside his skull whenever he moved his head. He was not wearing the clothes he had been wearing last night; in place of the tank top and fitted jeans were a simple t-shirt and boxers. The sun was high in the sky and the shadows of the trees and cars on the ground were short.

Sitting up, he could see that the bag where he kept most of his belongings was still in the same place, but on top of his bedside table there was a crumpled photograph of them in their youth.

Hanzo picked the photo up. It was Golden Week, he remembered. He was home from university in Tokyo that week. Genji had his green hair, slicked out of his face, but the color was faded and his roots were coming in atrociously. He’d slung his arm over Hanzo’s shoulder and they were both holding a beer bottle.

Who had taken this picture, even? Their friend? A servant? Not their father, possibly. He tightened his grip on the photo. It didn’t belong to him, but he couldn’t figure out where it had come from.

This was stupid. He could hear it in Genji’s voice, almost— _this is stupid._

The garbage bin was right there. It was a simple flick of the wrist, then the photo would be gone, and he needn’t worry himself about it any longer.

His finger struggled, he looked at it, but found himself not wanting to.

 _This is stupid_.

Sighing, he moved to put the photo back on his bedside table and froze. Laid innocently under the lamp, quivering with the disturbance of the air conditioner.

A sparrow feather.

Someone was playing some kind of sick joke on him. Besides, all of this was commonly known—the little Sparrow of the Shimada family, easygoing, laughing Genji. It could easily have been an imposter.

The stranger’s blue scarf occurred to him, oddly. Genji had been flesh and blood and life, but the laughter, the teasing. The story, from the village atop a hill with cherry blossoms in the spring.

He squeezed his eyes shut. No. He was a fool, indulging in childish weakness. The stranger had only said he was from Japan. He had said nothing about where he was from. Perhaps it was once long ago, as a child, that he had traveled to Hanamura and heard that story from some old man standing outside Shimada Castle.

In any case, the omnic must have helped him back home. Such kindness. He didn’t remember anything from last night after that fairy tale, except a hazy wetness on his face—had it been raining?—and _Genji, Genji, Genji,_ like the rhythm of their sword swings, training as children to bear the legacy and strength of dragons.

_Hanzo! Hanzo! Hanzo!_

The night that photo had been taken, Genji had drank and drank and drank until his breath smelled sour with alcohol and bile, slinging his arm over Hanzo’s shoulders and stumbling his way back, crying all the while. He’d had no idea how Genji was still able to talk after basically being cooped up in a box for four hours screaming into a microphone. The others had kept ordering more and more drink. They were happy, in the moment, at least.

 _Hanzo! I love you so much!_ Laughter and sobbing, simultaneously.

_Don’t call me that, remember._

_Yes, brother…. Brother… Brother,_ said Genji suddenly, almost solemnly, his eyes trying to maintain eye contact but blinking and slipping. _Brother, if I die—if I die, you should go on and marry a cute girl, okay? Don’t be sad over me, okay?_

Hanzo rubbed his eyes, trying to shove down the sudden pressure in his chest and throat. Foolish. Foolish.

All the same, he tucked the sparrow feather and photograph gently into a handkerchief, before leaving to shower.


	4. south wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo and Genji find peace.

“Two years ago in Numbani,” said Hanzo. “That was you, wasn’t it?”

Genji looked at him and laughed. “You are quite pathetic when you are very drunk, brother.”

Hanzo huffed and walked faster through the stones, almost squeezing the flowers in his hand to death; in his other hand, water sloshed out of the bucket at his quick pace. Genji’s chortling followed him all the way, but he was still grateful when he felt his brother’s presence catch up beside him, and they walked together on the path, passing solemn, dark columns carved with names of families through the ages.

The promise of summer in the coming months shone down upon them, and warmed the winds and made the flowers blossom in rich colors, the leaves a deep, reassuring green, fluttering and backlit against the sun.

“Was it this row?”

“No, one more,” and from around the corner, Genji beckoned Hanzo. “This one.”

The stone monument was tall, a solemn shade of dark gray, and carved in the middle, _Shimada._ Underneath, their family crest, two dragons circling each other. The north and the south, bright and dark, upholding the heavens in harmony. For a moment, they stood, looking at it, before Genji looked at Hanzo. “Brother.”

“Yes.”

He set the bucket on the ground, and wordlessly, they cleaned the gravestone Genji scrubbing gently, Hanzo pouring water. When it was done, Genji lit the incense and placed it in the holder and Hanzo unwrapped the flowers and set them in the vase in front. Then, they stepped back.

“Father,” said Hanzo.

“Father,” echoed Genji.

There was a brief moment where they prayed, and the gentle south wind carried their prayers to somewhere far away.

“You know,” said Genji, after a moment, “I… I did not know what had happened to Uncle. Not until then.”

“It was better if fewer people knew,” said Hanzo. “Most of all, you.”

Genji was silent. “Father was not a bad man,” he said finally. “And neither are you, brother.”

Hanzo scoffed, but did not reply. Beside him, Genji took a can of Asahi and a container of dumplings out of a plastic convenience store bag and placed them on the grave.

“Thank you, Father,” he murmured. “For raising us, loving us. I’m sorry I have not returned in many years, but Hanzo and I are doing well.”

Well. Hanzo looked up at the blue sky, clear overhead, the clouds drifting by in the kind wind. _My brother is here_ , he thought. _My father is here. My uncle is here._

The south wind whistled through the leaves. _My dragon is here_.

“Thank you, Uncle,” Genji continued. “I was a child when you saw me last, but I am a man now.”

He placed a single wrapped melon candy on the grave. Hanzo put his hands in his pockets, where he could feel a crumpled photo between his fingers.

They left, trodding along petal-ridden paths, Hanzo with his hands in his pockets, and Genji tall and proud, a mountain whole.

 

.

 

At a convenience store on their way back to the base, Hanzo bought a beef bowl and Genji a green tea, and they stood at the standing table, eating and drinking and looking at the street bustle with midday.

“Do you remember,” Genji started, “when we were boys and you broke your arm trying to get my cat out of the tree?”

Hanzo coughed, and swore. “Father had the cat put down after that.”

“A tragedy.” Genji shook his head sadly. “Cats are so cute.”

Ten years and he hadn’t changed. Hanzo tucked a bite of rice into his mouth. That day Genji had cried and cried and cried, and held onto Hanzo’s wide sleeve, much to his chagrin, and afterwards Hanzo had made a little monument out of an old cardboard box, wrote the cat’s name on it, and put it in the garden. They had washed it, like any other grave, but the box sagged with moisture and fell over. By next morning it was gone.

He had not remembered that in a long time. It felt surreal now, that something like that could still be a part of growing up. Childish innocence. The death of a pet. At the time it must have been a great pain, but nothing like the death of a brother.

“Why do you bring it up now?” asked Hanzo.

Genji scratched his cheek. His mask was off, today, and his face, covered in pink, welted scars, seemed thoughtful. “For a long time,” he said after a moment, “it was only us, brother. And now, even after all these years, it still is only us.”

“Not so,” said Hanzo. “You have many who would call you comrade.”

“It has been a year, brother,” said Genji, chuckling at him. “I am sure many of my comrades would also call you a comrade.”

“Like who?”

“Angela.”

“She hated me at first sight!”

“Only because of our history. But I have forgiven you, so she saw fit to try the same. I even think that she feels like she must take care of you.”

“I do not need taking care of.”

“It is her nature. She is a doctor.” Genji took another drink of the green tea. “And she is not the only one to call you comrade. Besides,” he added, “my point was not about Angela. My point was that, even after… all these years and our long paths apart, you are still the one who best understands our upbringing. Who we were. Where we came from. Who I was, then.”

“Not even Zenyatta?”

“He may know, yes, and understand, but…” He trailed off, lost in thought. “It is not something that is in his soul. It is not a necessary part of him like it is for you and I.”

Hanzo put his chopsticks down. “The dragons,” he said.

“Yes,” said Genji.

He moved his hand to his left wrist, where the head of his dragon rested, etched on his skin. “I did not take my little brother to be so wise.”

Genji shrugged. “A man is only as wise as those around him. I owe much to my master.”

“Father would be proud of you.” Genji was truly a dragon now, Hanzo thought, in every sense—indomitable strength in body and spirit, free and peaceful in mind, with the pearls of wisdom between his claws.

As if to echo his thoughts, Genji smiled kindly at him. “As he would you.”

Hanzo looked away. He thought, a little pathetically, of the scar in his stomach, skin broken by blade.

“I doubt so.”

“Brother,” Genji chided. “It is not weakness to overcome and heal, especially those wounds you had.”

They had all told him that, over the past year—Genji, Zenyatta, Angela. After a while, it felt like empty words. He found the truth the strongest in the morning, meditating and facing the waves around Gibraltar, rather than in the words of a dead brother, a robot monk, and an ambitious doctor.

In front of them, on the street, an old man walked with his hands clasped behind his back, holding a leash and a dog. Hanzo picked up his chopsticks again and pushed the rest of the rice in the bowl into his mouth.

He was alive. That was it. He was alive.

Genji was alive, too. As for their purpose together, they would figure that out. He still didn’t feel like Genji’s words were true, not entirely, but out of weakness came strength. He had faith in that much.

He threw away his empty plastic rice bowl, and Genji finished the tea. They started walking back to the base, letting the warm weather slow their steps, Genji pestering him the whole way, about meaningless things, Genji-like things.

“Did you meet any women in your travels?”

“ _Genji!_ ”

He laughed. “Just kidding, brother. Though I am surprised. You clean up very nicely. I like the little things you did here—” and he placed his metal index finger and thumb at the bridge of his nose. Hanzo frowned in mild embarrassment, and placed a hand over the close-shaven parts of his hair.

“Just wanted to try something new.”

“Too bad it did nothing for your perpetual bad luck in romance—oh come on, I’m just teasing! Hey! Wait up!”

Truly, after so long, he was still the little brother Hanzo knew. It could easily have been both of them walking home from school, easygoing, laughing Genji, hair green like melon candy, his blazer unbuttoned and flying in the sweet spring breeze, wheedling for a ramen dinner at the place on the way home, Hanzo’s treat, and then ice cream afterwards.

He obliged. After all, he was the older brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> double update because i'm neurotic enough to want the _whole thing up on the archive immediately_
> 
> anyway, thanks for reading this 457475th take on _hanzo is sad about genji and then is less sad_!! there's a lot going on re: ovw fancontent so i'm glad you took the time to stop by. (curse you blizz for giving me two characters with such juicy lore content relevant to themes i resonate with the most, curse you!)
> 
> if you wanna yell, feel free to leave a comment, or hit me @lazys0n on twitter!


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